


I Am Decayed.

by Quinnacin



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Depressing Issues, Leatherface - Freeform, Sad themes, Texas Chainsaw Massacre ( 2003 )
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 00:08:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12243264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinnacin/pseuds/Quinnacin
Summary: He could cry for an enduring amount of hours, on end, but it wouldn't do anything. But it wouldn't do a damn thing.





	I Am Decayed.

He realized this, now.

He realized that . .  
no matter what happened to him, no matter what they, did to him, no matter how hard, how callous, how harshly impacting the weight of damage from the back of a shotgun explicitly collided with his head;  he could cry.

He could cry for an enduring amount of hours, on end, but it wouldn't do anything. It wouldn't do a damn thing.

Thomas dropped to the ground, his back glissading against the chipped, old painted walls, the prickly feel incising at the roughly, jointly-thin flannel he slipped into. His face lolling into his gloved hands, Thomas dryly breathed, softly, nimbly.

He's been there before, in that precise position, but he'd been listening to Luda May’s talk about him, Leatherface.

. . Was that his name ? It might've been . . Bubba, or Junior . . or something . . 

Thomas shakily rubbed his face, or . . the inarticulately, ineptly remnants of human flesh put together, making up a mask to cover his face.

It's wasn't okay . . He, wasn't okay.  
He wasn't, not what they, his “family” told him. Leatherface would cry, makes noises because he couldn't talk, did anything and everything he could to get his family to discern and perceive what he needed them to know.

Every reply would be, ‘you're okay,’ ‘you don't need any help’.”

You retarded baby.

Thomas couldn't help it; something damp soaked his cheeks, from beneath the rotten, smelly mask he could no longer inhale. Tears, made from everything he felt, everything he wasn't able to say took in within those tears, sliding down his deformed face, leaking down his jaw.

He wanted to show it. He wanted to duly be able to say what he wanted, to tell them what he needed, suitably. He couldn't do that, and he could no longer think. His mind was fuzzy, messily slapped together with bits of different-random thoughts that were sewn together to make up his mind, but not make up his decisions.

That was up to his family.  
He couldn't do anything but hear them out, listen to their commands and do nothing but follow them, in the best way he could with as little support with what was scarcely ever, in a blue moon, provided to him.

Crying was the only thing that made him feel better, because he was nothing but a good-for-nothing crybaby that lived with a highly-dysfunctional family.

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing too much, just something short I whipped up while watching some TCM.
> 
> I really need to work on the stories I have; I've been preety busy lately with school, drawing, etc. I guess I have to make more room for writing, because i love it lol


End file.
